


Thank You for Calling:  All Our Lines Are Currently Engaged

by Historical_Muse



Category: British Actor RPF, British Actor RPH
Genre: AU in which Andy's unmarried, F/M, Fluffy Smut, PWP, silliness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-31
Updated: 2013-01-31
Packaged: 2017-11-27 17:56:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/664816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Historical_Muse/pseuds/Historical_Muse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You keep me haaaan-ging on the teee-lephoo-onne...”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thank You for Calling:  All Our Lines Are Currently Engaged

**Author's Note:**

> After seeing all the wonderful Tom Hiddleston, Benedict Cumberbatch, Richard Armitage/OC fics, I thought why not contribute a little Serkis love? :¬) So, I dusted this down...& discovered I have a lot more of this sort of thing. This cannot end well. :¬}

_"Thank you for calling.  All our lines are currently engaged and your call is being held in a queue.  Your call is important to us, and an operator will be with you shortly...”_

Owing to my lack of assertion skills, unless I’m speaking to those I love I _hate_ using the telephone.  I hate the fact that once engaged in conversation on one there seems to be no dignified way of escape from cold-callers or over-garrulous relatives and I’m trapped, quietly fuming at the invasion of my privacy when I’d much rather be doing...well, just about _anything_ , really.

I _especially_ hate the phone when I have a problem, I’m desperate to speak to a human being, and all the company’s lines are busy.  When I’m not actually in my own home and I’m using someone else’s phone bill, I _particularly_ don’t relish being fobbed off with a recorded message and cheesy generic muzak being played at me down the phone at a volume better suited to a nightclub.

Sitting perched on the window seat, I gaze glumly out of the only plain piece of glass in the otherwise frosted frame.  My attention is caught by the men building an extension to the house across the road, Capital Radio blaring out of their radio as if trying to compete with the row coming out of the receiver.

After such a wet summer, even the weak late-September sun has tempted the builders to shed their shirts and they cut an intriguing dash as they break off to perform something that is part line-dance, part pogo, and part football celebration to **_Cotton-Eyed Joe_** by Rednex.  It’s certainly more entertaining watching them than it is sitting here all alone waiting to speak to someone in customer services at Comet.

Andy is upstairs in his office, drinking tea and studying.  He’s just been cast in a leading role in a high-profile adaptation of **_Benedictus_** by the well-respected British author Lucy Rose, and he’s reading the novel in order to feed into his understanding of his character as he’s gleaned it from the script.  It’s a big deal because it’s a controversial novel inspired loosely by the story of Abbé Berenger Sauniere of Rennes-le-Chateau that makes **_The Da Vinci Code_** look tame with its weaving of Catholicism and Luciferian lore.  Erotic and passionate, intelligent and exquisitely written, it’s full of dark sexuality, forbidden themes, and shocking revelations, spiced with a wicked wit and frank humour.  Bawdy and uplifting by turns, the novel’s been a best-seller on both sides of the Atlantic and has spawned acres of comment in the media – partly because, frankly, the quality of the writing means that it’s both erudite and a mind-blowing turn-on to read.  In other words, it’s a rarity in this age of chick-lit novels and pale, lacklustre **_Da Vinci_** imitations.

Andy’s really looking forward to working on the project.  The last time he felt like this about a novel and been so determined to play a role in a film production of it that he’d even have purchased the rights and produced it himself was when he fell in love with **_Perfume_** by Patrick Süsskind and had longed to play Jean-Baptiste Grenouille.

In **_Benedictus_** he’s playing a priest, which amuses him greatly, and he’s been a contentious choice for the role, which has amused him even more.  Apparently, the backers had wanted someone more “bankable” and “more conventional-looking”, although Rose herself had championed Andy’s cause, having admitted that she wrote the character with Andy in mind – or, had she written it twenty–twenty-five years earlier, a younger Alun Armstrong:  in other words, the kind of role no-one else would ever have had the daring and imagination to offer him.

All the major players they’d approached had cried off the role, either too intimidated by the subject matter, or too scared of what it would do to their “image”.  Others had been wise enough to know their acting limitations and had gracefully declined what they knew they couldn’t handle; apparently, Orlando Bloom had responded with a disbelieving “Fuck _off!_ ” when approached and then laughed like a drain for a week.  I knew there was a reason why I loved that boy!

A voice from the phone brings me back to the present – only for the woman on the other end of the line to assure me yet again that while my call is _very_ important to them, all their operators are still busy.  Across the road, the workmen are now bouncing around to KT Tunstall’s **_Suddenly I See_** and I almost wish I could join them instead of cradling the phone receiver in the crook of my neck so that I can still hear the phone without being deafened by Mozart played on what sounds like a comb and tissue paper.

Suddenly there’s the soft _pad-pad-pad_ of bare feet on the wooden stairs; I turn to see Andy plodding down the steps towards me, and he takes my breath away.  Over well-worn pale blue jeans that are as soft as butter and pock-marked with frayed-edged holes he’s wearing a loose, long-sleeved, plain white sweatshirt that is tight enough to ride up and expose the dark pelt of hair on his slightly-rounded tummy and to highlight the powerful muscles in his chest and arms.

His hair, still growing back after being shaved to the scalp for a number of recent roles, is starting to fall into its habitual dark curls; and although there are faint shadows under his eyes from where he’s been studying too long into the night, his lashes are long and lush and his eyes are still the same devastating blue.  He’s not shaved for a few days and already his stubble is turning to the beard of brown, auburn and the beginnings of white that feels so deliciously scratchy against my skin.

There is also a chocolate stain on his cheek – not to mention the biscuit crumbs on his sweatshirt, and biro and highlighter pen marks on his fingers and jeans.  These, along with the wide-eyed little boy look he’s currently sporting, only serve to make him yet more appealing in my eyes, even though I’m well aware that his demure expression hides an ulterior motive.  However, his dissembling is an endearing trait I can live with, when he reaches the window seat and says my name in a familiar, coaxing rumble.

“Studying going well?” I ask brightly, feeling my pulse quicken at the sight of him biting his lower lip nervously.

“Had to take a break,” he replies, the timbre of his voice betraying a possible reason for needing one.

I swallow, feeling nervous and a little shy.  He _still_ has that effect on me, despite how long we’ve been together, and I love the way he makes me feel.  “Hard work, is it, this reading lark?”

The lip nibbling and sucking and the hopeful look in his eyes would be enough of a giveaway to his state of mind, even if it weren’t for the familiar musky smell of his arousal and the tell-tale bulge straining against the crotch of his jeans.  “It _makes_ things hard,” he replies softly, his breathing shallow and quick now.

I find myself falling into those luminous blue eyes and before I know it, he’s kissing me urgently, his mouth ferocious and hungry as he scoops me into his arms and presses himself between my legs where he feels hard and hot against me.  I’m glad I decided to wear a skirt today for a change as his hand reaches down to push it out of the way.  The awful muzak is still piping out of the phone; but when I wrap my free arm around Andy’s shoulders and my legs around his, it almost seems bearable with Andy’s beard scratching against my face and his warmth and kisses melting me like chocolate.

When Andy lifts his mouth from mine, leaving me feeling breathless and light-headed, he cups my face in his hands, stroking it with his thumbs.  “Can we...?”

“What – _here_?”

“ _Please_?”

Saying “yes” isn’t difficult – it never _is_ with him – and I let the phone receiver fall as I wind my arms around him.  He fumbles with his jeans, swearing as he catches himself in his zip, then sighs gratefully as I soothe him with my hand.  Feeling restored – and harder than ever – he sets about pushing my pants aside, complaining through his laughter about them being unsexy “Granny” pants and declaring that sometimes practicality _isn’t_ a good excuse for hideous underwear and why don’t I let him buy me something nicer?  I simply bury my face in the crook of his neck and sigh as his fingers open me up for his cock, relieved that the builders across the road are now safely back at work and have a cement-mixer going full-tilt in competition with their radio.

Although I’d be lying if I said I didn’t find the idea of having sex with Andy here in the window seat a huge turn-on...  The sex is uncomfortable, undignified, and, unsurprisingly, doesn’t last long.  However, it _is_ hot, with the added _frisson_ of being clothed and semi-public while we fucked being the catalyst for one of the loudest and best orgasms I’ve had for a while.  Afterwards, Andy holds me tight, and we cling together, kissing and chuckling and complaining about how the ledge of the window seat is painful to knees, thighs, and arses.

I kiss Andy gently on the forehead as he pants and huffs cheerfully in post-orgasmic glow.  “What was it you read in that book that brought this on?” I ask shyly.

“Do you _really_ want to know?” he rumbles against the side of my neck.

“Yes, please.”

“Well, I’d be rather happy to tell you,” he chuckles, giving me a heavy-lidded look.

In a growling whisper that tickles my libido and sends shivers down my spine, he then relates – in exquisite, unexpurgated, and extreme detail – a scenario in **_Benedictus_** that has me squirming and shifting in discomfort on the window seat as the combination of his voice and my imagination fan my desire into life once again.

“Andy,” I murmur into his ear, blowing a stray curl out of the way, “I do like the sound of this.  Why don’t we go upstairs, where it’s more comfy, and maybe act it out for ourselves – what do you reckon?”

He groans and squeezes me hard.  “ _Christ_!  You serious?”  I nod, and he beams at me proudly.  “I’m _well_ up for _that_!”  He kisses me and caresses my cheek.  “Shall we go?”

I kiss him back and he takes my hand to lead me up the stairs.

I am just about to slide off the window seat when I hear a voice from the receiver.  Picking it up, I hear:  “– Sorry to keep you waiting.  Thank you for calling Comet Customer Services.  How may I help you?”

“It’s all right,” I say, smiling into the receiver as Andy squeezes my hand impatiently and chortles in disbelief behind me.  “It’s nothing important.  It can wait.  I’ll call you back later!” 

*~*~*~*~*~*~The End~*~*~*~*~*~*

**Author's Note:**

> "Benedictus" isn’t a real book, but I wish it was; I’d love to read it! :¬)


End file.
